


Guided Meditation

by hannah_baker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Meditation, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_baker/pseuds/hannah_baker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re exhausted,” John said, his voice soft and compassionate. Sherlock nodded. “But you’re not sleepy,” he continued, noticing the tell-tale paradoxical signs of physical tiredness and mental alertness. These twin traits were the foundation of Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guided Meditation

**Author's Note:**

> Just some sweet, sweet sleep fluff.
> 
> EDIT 06/08/12: katisark has translated this story to Russian! Incredible! You can read it here: http://katisark.diary.ru/p177351801.htm?oam#form

John shifted in bed as he heard his phone buzz. He slept with the damn thing too close to his head. He grabbed it and shut it off without looking at the text. He was finally sleeping, damnit, and he was intending to continue sleeping.

Twenty seconds later he heard Sherlock’s phone buzz. Shit, he thought. It would be harder to switch his phone off without waking him. John’s exhausted brain tried to devise a plan to reach around Sherlock’s body to grab his phone without moving him, a way to get out of bed to get the phone without having to get out of bed. His thoughts got all tangled. Thinking was so hard. The phone fell silent. He fell back asleep.

When he woke up again twenty-five minutes later, it was to a pounding on his door. No fucking way was he getting that. He glanced over at the alarm clock on his night stand. It was half eight in the morning. He and Sherlock had finally, finally gotten to sleep after a particularly tiring, absolutely non-stop case barely two hours ago.  There was no way he was getting the door. Whoever it was (and it was probably Lestrade) could take a hint.

The knocking didn’t stop though, and he heard Sherlock’s phone buzz again. He felt Sherlock stretch against his back, the arm that was around John’s chest tightening. Fuck, John thought. He was going to absolutely murder whoever it was.

“Whasgoinon?” Sherlock slurred into the back of John’s neck, his body twitchy from just waking up.

“Some wanker is at the door,” John said. “I’m going to go punch him. Don’t get up, okay?” John slid out of Sherlock’s arms and reached over him to grab his phone and shut it off. The texts displayed on Sherlock’s screen confirmed it was Lestrade.

John grumbled as his legs, heavy from a confusing combination of recent sleep and pressing exhaustion, had difficulty navigating the bedroom floor. Pants, pants, John thought, finally finding a long pair of Sherlock’s pajamas to don, and a ratty old t-shirt of his own. His eyelids were drooping, and he could feel the ever-present tension in his shoulders winding itself tighter. He’d have to have Sherlock figure that out later.

Finally, he opened their bedroom door and dragged himself over the hardwood to the front door. He didn’t open it.

“Hey tosser, I was sleeping,” John said through the door. The pounding stopped.

“John, oh thank God,” Lestrade called back. “Open up, it’s important.”

Another sleepy grumble emitted from John, coming at this point involuntarily. He flicked the deadbolt back and opened the door a crack.

“Sleeping,” he said angrily, before opening the door the rest of the way. “I was sleeping.”

“I know John, and I’m sorry to do this to you, but we really need Sherlock on this one,” Lestrade said, his voice as tight as John’s shoulders.

“Just like you needed him yesterday? I know your team got to go home and sleep last night, so you weren’t aware that Sherlock and I were at the scene until five this morning, but we were. And Sherlock has gotten about six hours of sleep in the past four days. As a physician,” John started, before he heard the bedroom door open again. “Goddamnit,” he finished, his previous train of thought gone.

Sherlock emerged from their room in just a pair of boxers, his hair wild from sleep. He dragged his feet down the hallway, his eyes mostly closed, and came up behind John. Sherlock slumped against him, his arms snaking around John’s waist, face snuggled into the skin of John’s neck. “If you are ruder,” he said, his voice plenty loud enough for Lestrade to hear clearly, “maybe he will go away faster.”

Lestrade looked at Sherlock’s arms around John’s waist, then to John’s eyes. John was friendly with Lestrade - they’d gone out for a pint a few times - but he wasn’t in the mood for some heart-to-heart about his relationship status. He and Sherlock’s relationship wasn’t secret, but they kept it away from their work. It was just easier that way. John sighed and turned in his partner’s arms, his hand reaching up to cup Sherlock’s cheek. “Go back to bed, try to relax, okay? I’ll be in in five minutes.”

Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s, taking a couple deep breaths. Then to John’s great surprise, he nodded his consent and complied, giving Lestrade a dirty look before shuffling his long legs back to their room. He must be beyond exhausted.

When the door closed the distracted, questioning look on Lestrade’s face grew more prominent. “How long-“

“Little over a year,” John said, shrugging.

“I had no idea,” Lestrade said, his voice judgement free. John was relieved. He knew that Donavan and Anderson would have a field day with the idea of John and Sherlock’s relationship being romantic, but he hand’t been sure about the Detective Inspector.

“Yeah, well, we keep home at home,” John said, clearing his throat partially because his voice was still a bit on the asleep side, and partially to change the topic. “As his physician,” John continued as his earlier thought returned to him, “he really must sleep. Now. I don’t understand how he survives on so little sleep in the first place. And I need sleep too, for that matter,” John punctuated this thought with an involuntary yawn. “You are Scotland Yard. You’ll figure it out.”  

Lestrade looked defeated. “Yeah,” he said with a sigh.

“You can call him if you don’t figure whatever it is out, but give us at least twelve hours,” John said, hating that he had been rude to the inspector. He wasn’t trying to be mean, he was just so frustrated. Sherlock had just gotten to sleep, and now he was awake…

“Okay. I’ll call tonight,” Lestrade said, not even acknowledging the option that the Yard would figure it out for themselves. He gave John a nod and a smile before he pulled the door closed behind him and left. Lestrade left John’s mind the instant the door shut, and his brow furrowed as he tried to work out a plan for his more pressing problem.

“John!” Sherlock called from their room, and John sighed.

“I’m coming,” he called back, making a quick detour to the kitchen cupboards to retrieve a wine glass. The bottle of red they had opened before the case started was still on the counter, and John pried off the stopper and poured a small glass for Sherlock. That should help a little.

Sherlock’s poor sleep schedule wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t because his body was just a vessel for his mind, and it wasn’t because everything aside from the work was transport. It was largely dependent on the fact that it was nearly impossible for Sherlock to even get to sleep in the first place. And after he was asleep he was such a light sleeper. John had never seen insomnia so terrible.

John padded back into their room, finding Sherlock sitting cross legged in the middle of their bed.

“You’re exhausted,” John said, his voice soft and compassionate. Sherlock nodded. “But you’re not sleepy,” he continued, noticing the tell-tale paradoxical signs of physical tiredness and mental alertness. These twin traits were the foundation of Sherlock Holmes.

John handed Sherlock the wineglass and pulled his shirt back over his head. He climbed into their bed, sitting with his back against the headboard. “C’mere,’ he said, gesturing toward himself. Sherlock took a sip of his wine and held the glass carefully as he shifted over to John’s side of the bed, crawling between John’s legs and laying back against his chest, his head resting on John’s shoulder. He sighed as John’s arms came around him.

“Take another sip,” John instructed, his voice low. It was before nine in the morning, perhaps not the most appropriate time to be drinking, but a little alcohol had been known to help Sherlock get to sleep in the past. It was unfortunately looking like he would need all the help he could get this morning. John turned his head to place a kiss on Sherlock’s temple. “We can do this together, okay?” John said, mentally berating himself for the pre-sleep pep-talk. He knew Sherlock hated it, but that side of him always came out when he was taking care of someone. He innately tried to build the person up for whatever battle they were facing. And he wasn’t just taking care of Sherlock - he was full on babying him.

“Ugh, I hate this,” Sherlock said, and John’s heart broke. Sherlock Holmes was not a vulnerable man. He wore armor over his heart, shot insults like bullets. He was, to everyone except for John (and John too, most of the time) a man made of iron. Seeing him distressed wrecked John.

“I’m so sorry, love,” John responded. “Have a bit more wine,” he instructed, and Sherlock complied. “You feel okay?” John asked him, stifling back a yawn. It was very important to be awake right now for Sherlock, but he was finding it to be nearly impossible.

“I’m fine. Yeah, I’m ready,” Sherlock said, shifting a little further down in John’s embrace, trying his absolute hardest to relax - though trying hard to relax was winding him up a bit. John placed his hand, palm flat and flush, against the center of Sherlock’s chest and applied a bit of pressure.

“Close your eyes. Now, what do you feel?” John asked, starting an exercise he had made up for Sherlock, the goal of which was to bring his mind down from thinking about twenty things at once to thinking about one or two things. This, admittedly, was one of the larger challenges in this process.

Sherlock sighed. “I feel everything,” he said, his voice frustrated.

“Focus on this one thing. Focus on the way my hand feels on your chest. Tell me only about that,” he said, his voice steady and patient.

“It’s warm,” Sherlock said, taking another sip of his wine. “Feels nice.”

“Good,” John said, encouragingly. “What else?”

“You’re pressing harder with your thumb and your ring finger than with your other fingers.”

“Mmhmm.”

“The seasons are changing. It’s getting colder. I think it’s finally, officially winter,” Sherlock said.

“Pull back,” John said patiently. “Just focus on my palm on your chest.”

“I am. That’s how I know it’s winter. Aside from the calendar and the weather reports, your skin is rougher. It’s finally and truly winter-dry. And that lotion you used all last winter was useless. Choose one without alcohol in it this year.”

John chuckled. Of course. Maybe he was too tired to do this if he was missing the fact that large steps like that were the normal pattern of Sherlockian deduction.

“Good,” he said, “take a sip.” Sherlock complied.

“Your skin is warmer than usual even though it’s cold out. Your body is trying desperately to put itself to sleep,” Sherlock continued, his voice verging on jealousy. Sometimes John woke to Sherlock’s gaze, fixed longingly on him. John knew Sherlock was longing not just for him, but for his ease at getting to sleep.

John pressed his nose to Sherlock’s hair, breathing deeply. The smell of Sherlock, the smell of home. God, he was too comfortable. He was falling asleep. He blinked his eyes rapidly, tried to think awake thoughts. “Feeling okay?” he asked Sherlock, his voice coming out in a deep whisper, almost hoarse.

“You don’t have to do this,” Sherlock said, his guilt clear in his voice. This was the second time that morning they had gone through this process. Sherlock was sick of it, and he was sure John wasn’t exactly excited to repeat it again so soon. He gulped the last of his wine. “You can just go to bed, I’ll be fine.”

“Sherlock,” John started, taking Sherlock’s now empty wine glass from him and setting it on the table beside them. He wrapped his arms properly around Sherlock and held him close. “Sweetheart, I love you. We know this works. There’s no reason for me to go to sleep without you.”

Sherlock turned in John’s arms and leaned up, just far enough for their lips to meet. The kiss was sweet and slow and sleepy, with less precision than kissing a fully alert Sherlock Holmes. John was encouraged.

“I don’t understand why you’re always so nice to me,” Sherlock whispered quietly into John’s lips.

“Yes you do,” John said, kissing Sherlock once more, just a chaste peck. “Let’s lie down.”

They shifted down, struggling with their tired, useless limbs until John was lying on his back, Sherlock wrapped close around him, his head on John’s chest. John held him, but lightly, not wanting to overwhelm Sherlock with sensation.

“Concentrate on your toes,” John started, walking Sherlock through a pseudo-guided meditation that one of the guys he went to Afghanistan with taught him. It was always uncomfortably hot there, and this exercise was supposed to lower your body temperature to help you sleep. However, because this was London in the winter and the warmth would help Sherlock sleep, John worked it the other way. He cleared the sleep out of his throat and spoke evenly and much more slowly than his usual speech pattern would have dictated.

“Feel your toes. Just feel all ten of them. Don’t move them, just feel how they feel to be toes.”

“Feeling,” Sherlock responded, just a whisper.

“Feel them. Concentrate on making them feel warm. Each of your toes is so completely warm.”

“Warm,” Sherlock responded.

“They’re warm, and they’re heavy. They’re so heavy, you couldn’t lift them if you tried. So toes, and so warm, and so heavy.”

“Heavy,” Sherlock responded.

“And the rest of your feet. Feel them feel like feet. The pads, the arches, the heel. Feel them feel like feet,” John said, his voice quiet but confident. They worked through this so often he thought he could do it in his sleep. At least he was hoping he could do it in his sleep, because it seemed like that’s where this was headed.

“Feeling.”

“Do you feel how warm your feet are? They’re not uncomfortable, just warm.”

“Warm.”

“They’re so pleasantly warm and also quite, quite heavy.”

“Heavy,” Sherlock responded, barely a mumble.

“Feel your ankles…”

John worked Sherlock slowly up through his body, having him acknowledge each of his separate body parts as present, and warm, and heavy. John was surprised that this exercise still worked. They had discovered its effectiveness a couple months ago, and had expected it to be a one-time thing that Sherlock would have gotten bored with. But somehow, it was still helping the detective achieve a bit of illustrious sleep.

Finally, when John got to Sherlock’s rib cage asking him to feel, Sherlock didn’t respond. John was quiet, refraining from feeling his own ribcage to focus on Sherlock’s breathing. His breaths were coming long, low, and steady. John tried for his sigh of relief to be shallow, not wanting a drastic intake of breath to startle him out of sleep again. There is a God, John thought when he was sure Sherlock had fallen asleep. It took him about four more seconds to follow Sherlock there.

*

When John woke up for the third time that morning, it was to something more pleasant than a phone buzzing or knocking at the front door. It was to light kisses on his collar bone. Slowly, he came to, finding himself now asleep on his side, the world’s only consulting detective snuggled under his chin.

“Mmmm, morning,” John said, his voice perfectly rough with sleep. He must have gotten some decent amount if he sounded this terrible. His limbs now felt rested and just nice all tangled around Sherlock, instead of the uncomfortable and sleep-deprived clumsy from earlier that morning.

“Good afternoon,” Sherlock corrected, letting his tongue drag a lazy path on the small swatch of John’s skin he could reach without moving his head.

“Well, don’t you sound well rested?” John asked jokingly, basking in the afterglow of a good sleep. “Good sleep” being defined as any sleep Sherlock got. It had a way of rubbing off on John.

“I have slept for seven hours straight. I don’t think I’ve done that in months,” Sherlock said, his voice a bit incredulous and unmistakably fully alert.

“It must have been the perfect storm,” John mused, wondering if they could repeat this process. “An exhausting all-night case, a pre-sleep sleep fail, an annoying detective buzzing phones and banging on doors, a half of a glass of wine-“

“And the most patient man on the planet earth,” Sherlock finished. John just pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. He made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat, and shifted, pushing John on his back in order to kiss him properly.

Usually, a well-rested Sherlock Holmes was unstoppable from the second he woke, slightly manic, immediately beginning work on three or four things at once - at least in his brain. He was not known for his lie-ins.

This morning, well, afternoon, found Sherlock hovered calmly over John’s body, one arm supporting his own weight, the other hand cupping John’s face lightly. His kissed John deep, but with a slow honesty, his tongue barely ghosting into John’s mouth. The kiss was so sweet John thought he must be dreaming. Sherlock usually kissed with a bit more purpose.

The pressure of their kiss increased only momentarily before Sherlock broke away, keeping his face close.

“What was that for?” John asked, smiling up at him, and fixing one more small kiss on his lips.

“Just a proper thank you,” Sherlock said.

“Thank you for what?” John asked, making an attempt at pulling Sherlock’s body flush to his, but Sherlock stayed in his close hover, poised to climb out of bed at any moment. John wasn’t surprised. Staying in bed when he was awake made him restless and cranky and John would just as soon avoid that situation.

“You know perfectly well what,” Sherlock said, “and I know this is a thing that I don’t say very frequently - and that is only because I trust that you already know - but John Watson, I do love you.”

John smiled. An “I love you” from Sherlock was hard won and always made him feel incredible. “I love you too,” he replied.

Sherlock pressed one final kiss to John’s forehead and leaped out of bed, a dressing gown materializing around him at some point as he breezed out the door of their room. Bigger adventures awaited.

But quickly he was back, just poking his head through the doorway.

“Are you getting up now? Can I make you some tea?” Sherlock asked, in a way that was quite a lot more considerate than normal. Even though John could have gone for another hour or two of sleep, he sat up, deciding to opt for the tea. It would probably be the only time this year he wouldn’t have to make it himself. He would sleep later.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is the first fanfiction I've written in six years, and my first ever for Sherlock. I don't really have any connections in the fandom, so I'm currently beta-less. Any tips on fixing that situation would be most appreciated.


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